


Longing, Like Rage

by thesunsaid



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Drinking, F/F, Flirting, the meaning of family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23090437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunsaid/pseuds/thesunsaid
Summary: "I think they're right, though," she continues, "our friends. There are people who love them, who call them family -- or once did." Her brow furrows as she struggles for the fleeting thought.Beau gets there first. "But they're not here?" she asks. "They're not us. Fighting so hard to do …whatever it is we're doing.""Living."
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha
Comments: 4
Kudos: 89





	Longing, Like Rage

"Everyone keeps saying this thing." Yasha tears a piece of bread, looking down at the two pieces in her hands instead of across the table at Beau. Her thoughts form slower than she'd like and she drags the moment out by shoving a piece of the bread into her mouth. 

"What thing? What kind of thing?" Beau asks. Concern flashes on her face, brow creasing as she waits for Yasha to elaborate. 

Beau's mind moves quickly, she can see the woman's eyes taking in her whole body, face and mouth as she chews, her legs crossed up on the edge of the table, fingers still fidgeting with the remaining bread. She's looking to find the answer before Yasha can even give more information. Yasha grins slightly, liking the intensity, the action and agility in Beau's gaze alone.

"About family, about this group…" Yasha says, gesturing with her fingers as if to encompass the whole of the Mighty Nein who aren't present. "But so many of you have family somewhere…even if you don't like them."

"Uh, yeah," Beau shifts in her seat, leaning away uncertainly. "What about it?"

"It's not the same, our…friends," and she struggles with the word, catches herself on it, still not sure what it means to her that these people continue to have trust in her. It does feel like something different. 

"Oh." Beau tilts her head and lifts her hand in a hesitant gesture, as if throwing an invisible star at the wall behind her. "Well, yeah. It's different when you don't like your family and you don't want to go back to them." Her eyes follow the flick of her fingers to the wall beyond, as if she's watching to see the target it strikes. 

Yasha wonders a moment if it's Beau's father the invisible star pierces to the wall. 

She turns her head to follow the line of Beau's gaze when the other woman speaks again. "It's different for you, yeah? You had the carnival before us, with Molly. And then you had your …tribe? And your wife. That's a family, isn't it?"

"It was," Yasha says softly, remembering the smile in Zuala's eyes. It feels too long ago now and she can never introduce her to these people. If she had her, she wouldn't be here. She wouldn't have this family, if that's what it is. She wouldn't have certainty or hope she might be able to accomplish something after the thing she's been before. There's a tender piece of her in that memory of Zuala that may never heal.

If she stays apart from these people, leaves herself separate, she's afraid of what she becomes without them. Somehow, they still believe in her. And she wants what is before her in the here and now. While she has it. 

She nods and meets Beau's softening expression with her own weary hope. "I think they're right, though," she continues, "our friends. There are people who love them, who call them family -- or once did." Her brow furrows as she struggles for the fleeting thought. 

Beau gets there first. "But they're not here?" she asks. "They're not us. Fighting so hard to do …whatever it is we're doing."

"Living," Yasha says and chuckles softly.

Beau coughs. "Umm--" She shakes her head and slides down in her chair, leaning thoughtfully against the back. "That's yeah--"

"There's a difference between fighting to live, and only fighting," Yasha says. Her voice is low and careful when she speaks. And she watches a flush rise in Beau's dark cheeks, her tight grip in her fingers as she holds the arms of the chair. It's too easy to let her gaze follow the lithe line of Beau's body from her shoulders, to waist, her hips and a knee off to the side of the table between them. 

"We do both, sometimes," Beau says. "Don't we?"

"None of us are perfect." And Yasha's mind conjures a luxury of things they could choose to do instead, she and Beau. She smiles, feeling the warmth in her own cheeks which must betray her thoughts. 

"Yeah," Beau says, slowly nodding. 

Their eyes meet for a long moment and Yasha feels an ache in her chest, a longing like rage she is forever pushing down. That's her fight, not against history but herself. She thinks maybe, Beau is a little bit the same. Younger maybe, but no less touched by the pain of a family she's trying to keep in the past. That can't be made into something it isn't. Alive or loving. 

"You want a drink?" Beau asks? "I think I could use a drink."

Beau stands and reaches up for a bottle off a nearby shelf, a fine bottle of something shiny and amber from Hupperduk. She holds it up to Yasha who shrugs approvingly. She pops the cork and pulls their mugs into a line in order to pour. Yasha moves quick, putting a hand over her mug and looking at Beau. 

"Let's just take the bottle," she suggests. 

"Where? The roof, the hot tub?"

There's quick flash in Beau's eyes that do make her very curious about where things could lead either in the garden, or in the hot tub. For this though, she doesn't need the potential of an audience or the vague subtleties in protracted excuses to be close. She's aiming for something more direct.

Yasha looks down at Beau with a lifted eyebrow, curling her lips up to a half-grin. "My room," she suggests, no hint of a question in her voice.


End file.
